


Anastomosis - Volume 1

by thecountessolivia



Series: The Anastomosis Snapshots [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Foot Jobs, M/M, Motorcycles, PWP, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall, Will's sexy sweaty neck, baths, leather!Hanni
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-03-17 00:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: A loose collection of post-fall, mostly PWP snapshots. Now complete.Ch 1. NeckCh 2. FeetCh 3. TeethCh 4. Leather (Part 1)Ch 5. Leather (Part 2)Ch 6. Leather (Part 3)Ch 7. Music





	1. Neck

**Author's Note:**

> Assume this takes place in the same post-fall reality as ["Blueschist"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13439064/chapters/30800961), ["After Dinner'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12917154/chapters/29514102) and ["Pelt"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12890007).

When the pleasures of Will's body first made themselves known to him, Hannibal found them akin to the experience of exploring a new city. He became a flâneur of the flesh, lost and found all at once in Will.

Certainly there is something architectural in the way Will has been assembled by Nature. Take Will's neck, which occupies a number of pages in Hannibal's sketchbook, constructed roughly or in painstaking detail from charcoal or graphite. Pedestalled on this graceful column is the greatest spoil of the war Hannibal has waged with himself for years: Will's mind.

At this very moment, Will's neck is glistening with sweat as he passes Hannibal in the kitchen on the way back from his run. Hannibal's pencils have never captured that sheen to his satisfaction and he stares at it now, committing it to memory. Will grunts a greeting, fills a glass from the tap and throws back its contents until he's sated. Hannibal's focus narrows to the image of liquid passing down Will's throat in rhythmic gulps, a counterpoint to the fast arterial throb beneath smooth slick skin. Hannibal can almost see the twin streams of cold water and hot blood coursing side by side within.

Will pays him no heed. Or he affects obliviousness. In either case, he leaves Hannibal where he's standing and begins a slow amble up the stairs, towards the bathroom. He peels off his T-shirt along the way, uses it to wipe off his nape, then dumps it on the steps.

 _Blatant_ , Hannibal thinks, and immediately abandons his kitchen duties to stalk Will up the stairs. He follows in the wake of Will's scent and the heat haze of Will's body. He knows Will knows he is being pursued and dearly wishes to see the smile that the knowledge brings to Will's face. He picks up the discarded T-shirt like a prize and brings it to his nose.

Will stops in the bathroom doorway, forearms resting on the frame. He peers over his shoulder at Hannibal, eyebrow arched. When his hips cant, the muscles in his back shift and shine. Hannibal twists and twists the shirt in his hands until it forms a short tight rope.

"What?" Will asks, but doesn’t turn.

"You dropped this."

“And you look like you want to hit me with it.”

Hannibal steps closer, until the smell and the heat of Will engulf him. A fresh drop of sweat beads up behind Will's right ear and slides lazily down past clinging damp curls. How far will it roll, Hannibal wonders, before he can lap it up?

"I don't."

He slings the shirt about Will's waist and uses it to draw them together: one quick, hard tug to bring Will's back flush against himself. He opens his mouth over Will's neck without thought, just above the curve of his shoulder where the drop of sweat has settled. He swirls his tongue into its saline pool. Will squirms against him, slippery like a caught fish, and sighs, hands clutching Hannibal's hands.

"Hannibal— come on. I stink."

Hannibal is pleased at being met with such token resistance. "Stink is relative."

"I really need a shower. Or are you just gonna lick me clean?"

Hannibal lets the T-shirt drop. Will's scorching heat has soaked through his clothing and spilled down into Hannibal's cock. One palm caressing circles into the smile on Will's belly, the other spread over Will's neck. Fingertips skidding over the thyroid cartilage, down to the wet hollow of Will’s suprasternal notch. Gentle kisses laid down the long path of Will's pulse. Hannibal finds he is breathing to the beat of Will's heart and shuts his eyes, adrift.

Odd metaphors come to him, as they only ever do with Will. He imagines himself caught in the rushing red rapids of the carotid, a lost traveller carried upstream towards the circle of Willis, that coral crown of arteries that feeds the wondrous neural cities of Will's brain. What treasures would he find there with such unfettered access? And would he ever find his way back?

"Shall we ignore the fact that you baited me here?"

Will's head slumps back onto Hannibal's shoulder, all of his throat on offer to Hannibal's lips and tongue and teeth. Hannibal slots his fingers into the damp tangle of Will's hair, tightens them into a grip and tugs, not too hard. Touch, he has long ago learned, coaxes answers from Will more readily than any verbal acrobatics.

"Maybe I did," Will mutters. "Will you just—" He pulls Hannibal's hand from his stomach and shoves it down his shorts, into the heat and sweat there. Their fingers fumble together, lifting and teasing Will's hardening cock.

Hannibal nips and licks at the delicate skin of Will's neck. “And why did you?” He wraps his fist about Will’s cock and squeezes once, hard.

A little gasp from Will. Another squirm against Hannibal’s hips. "Because I woke up this morning thinking about the first time I fucked you," he says quickly.

Hannibal smiles between bites and kisses. His hand in Will's shorts works steadily, slowly. Never far from the shores of awareness, the memories surface at once: bent over the side of that squalid little bed, Will’s naked body draped over him, the burn of cheap synthetic carpet against Hannibal's knees, the burn of Will inside him.

"And you didn't rouse me for a reenactment?"

"Wouldn't be the same." Will says. He's shoving his shorts down, kicking them away, then grasping again at the doorframe to steady himself. His cock is stiff and heavy with blood in Hannibal's hand, precome sliding over Hannibal's knuckles. "It was— the way you— fuck." Another gasp, as Hannibal thumbs at the head, smearing the slickness. "The way you couldn't help yourself."

 _The way I can't help myself now_ , Hannibal thinks.

"Nor could you," he says instead and pulls back just enough to examine his efforts: the arch of Will's bare back, his parted panting mouth, the garden of pale red blooms on his neck, raised up by Hannibal's lips. One for the sketchbook. He reaches down and tugs himself free.

One hand over Will's throat, the other gripping his own cock to trace its head slowly down the cleft of Will's cheeks. He cannot muster even that much control. He manages a single pass over that lovely swell of flesh before he shoves himself between Will's thighs and begins to thrusts.

Will groans against his ear. He rocks back onto Hannibal's cock, raised up on his toes, not quite steady. "God. That shitty motel. You could have waited for silk sheets, for— harder. Come on, don't hold back."

Hannibal fucks faster, harder into the sweat-slicked clench of muscle, and grips Will's cock again to stroke in time. Arousal past and present crashing together, all elegant choreography thrown overboard, he roams Will's body blindly: twisting at nipples, scratching at the marks on his throat, pushing fingers into that hot open mouth. He knows what it's like to drown and this, too, is like drowning. "When could I ever help myself with you, Will?"

No more words as they find their pace, fast and jerky and desperate. Moans pass through Will's throat and vibrate against Hannibal's lips. Hannibal wishes he could swallow them down. The high drawn-out cry that his bite elicits is the end. He's caught by the sweet and bright contraction of his orgasm, and spills hot and hard between Will's legs.

He heaves a harsh breath and gives himself a moment before spinning Will by the hips and seizing him in a kiss. Their tongues tangle briefly and then, at last, their eyes can meet. Will's are dilated and hazy. Hannibal doesn't dare to think what his own may show. He cradles Will's face and kisses him again, light and tender. Then again and again.

"Your mouth," Will says softly into one of the kisses and Hannibal nods at once, already sliding to his knees, nails dragging down Will's torso on his way down.

He arrives in time to see his come coursing down Will's inner thighs. He reaches around to smear his fingers through the mess, stirring up his own scent to mingle with Will's. He closes his mouth loosely just above the head of Will's cock and paints with his tongue: over the sensitive ridge, over the slit, underneath and down the shaft. The veins he traces carry Will's heartbeat and Hannibal chases that familiar melody as he begins to suck. It's enough to make him dizzy.

"Just don't tease," Will says on a moan, fingers caught in Hannibal's hair and hips working into Hannibal's mouth, "I'm close. Please..."

Hannibal takes pity on him. He tightens his lips and lets Will thrust as he pleases, down into his throat. A few more seconds are enough and then Will is coming in Hannibal's mouth, thighs shaking in Hannibal's bruising grip.

If Hannibal had powers over time, he'd stretch moments like this into a small infinity. Instead, he lets himself linger until he's savoured and swallowed down the last drop of Will's climax. He staggers to his knees and finds himself caught between wanting to hold Will close and stepping back to admire the end result of Will's simplistic seduction. He chooses the latter and finds he's chosen wisely.

Will before him, fumbling for a towel. Flushed and naked and slightly dazed, come-soaked and bite-marked and not quite able to hold the weight of Hannibal's pleased regard. An absurdly exquisite sight.

"Sorry. That was a cheap lure. The— shirt thing," he says, frowning. He's picking up the cast off casualties of his running wear.

Hannibal begins to peel out of his own clothes. If he's entirely honest, both of them are beginning to smell appalling. Besides, showers with Will are usually pleasant affairs, not to be turned down.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Will. It's far too late to question your methods. You should know you reeled me in years ago."


	2. Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the title isn't obvious enough: don't read this if you're one of those people who doesn’t enjoy the aesthetics of the human foot.

Something slides smoothly into the ball of Hannibal's bare foot, like a needle of ice. He scents his own blood a moment before a faint dampness manifests beneath his step. He turns off the taps and sits down on the edge of his freshly drawn bath to seek out the culprit. Of course: pieces of the tumbler glass Will had shattered on the bathroom floor earlier in the week had remained carelessly unswept and have now lodged themselves in Hannibal. The extraction will require tweezers.

Hannibal wraps a towel about his waist and moves gracelessly to the drawers beside the sink. He searches their contents. No tweezers. Here again Will is doubtlessly to blame.

"Will," Hannibal calls as forcefully as he can without shouting, "have you taken the tweezers?"

From somewhere deep inside the house: "Huh?"

"Please come up here. I do not wish to shout."

First the plodding footsteps in which Hannibal can sense a weary annoyance, then Will's scowling head appears through a crack in the bathroom door. A look at Hannibal, at the lightly red-spattered tiles, and then at the cotton wool Hannibal is holding to his foot. Will's eyes widen a fraction.

"What happened?"

"Glass from a few days ago."

Will scratches at the back of his neck, face twisting in a slight grimace. "Shit. Sorry. Thought I got it all."

"It happens. Tweezers?"

"Twee— Right. Yeah. They're in the bedroom. Hang on."

Will makes the trip quickly and barges back into the room, equipped with the tweezers. When Hannibal reaches for them, he makes no move to hand them over. He pulls up a small stool to the edge of the tub instead, close to where Hannibal is sitting, and gestures vaguely towards Hannibal's foot.

"My fault. I'll do it."

And how could Hannibal decline such an offer? He settles more comfortably on the edge of the tub, suppressing a smile, and lifts the wounded limb to rest in Will's lap. Will leans into his task at once, brow furrowed with concentration. He lays a careful hand over the arch of Hannibal's foot and uses his fingers to splay two of the toes, stretching the skin. He extracts the largest splinter of glass with ease and stashes it in the cotton wool.

"The smaller ones won't come out as easily," he says after several moments of finessing with his tool. "Maybe soak it for a bit?"

"Wise," Hannibal says and casts off his towel to climb into the bath. He stretches to full comfort in the scented and still steaming water.

"I didn't mean— nevermind," Will mutters, and stares.

Hannibal soaks in the pleasure at Will's skittish regard, framed as it is by a rising blush. After a token submersion, he brings his foot back to the edge of the tub. "Here," he says, "perhaps your job will be easier now."

Will shifts on the stool, a small flicker of his flight response, but his hands settle back onto Hannibal's foot. His palms are damp, not from the steam of the bath. His thumb kneads the skin over the metatarsals, ostensibly to help loosen and dislodge the finer fragments of glass.

"You are attentive to them," Hannibal says, "my feet."

Will keeps his eyes on his work, tweezers picking and poking at the tiny wounds. "Well, yeah. What else should I be?"

"I don't mean now. I mean generally. You kiss them when my legs are on your shoulders.” Hannibal’s toe taps lightly over Will’s knuckle. “When we're in bed together."

Will looks up, startled and suspicious. His blush deepens. "So now it's your turn to pry something out of me? I don't have a foot fetish, Hannibal."

Hannibal soaps up a sponge and dabs it idly over his neck and shoulders. "Applying labels to our desires can often give them the unnecessary weight of preconceptions and expectations. Besides, I was merely making an observation."

"Nothing is ever _mere_ with you." Will says, then falls silent, hunched and frowning over his task.

Hannibal makes a small considering noise at this poor attempt to divert attention from what Will wants. He flexes and fans out his toes when another sliver of glass is pulled from his flesh with the barest of stings. He slides deeper into the fragrant, faintly milky pool and lets his unharmed foot move and splash about in the water. He flicks a few droplets towards Will's face.

Will flinches with a soft huff of annoyance. "Stop that," he says.

Hannibal does it again and this time Will grips the offending foot. After a quick squeeze, he shoves it back in the bath.

"You have no idea how much time I had to spend in their company. Your feet. After the ocean."

"Had you? How so?"

"You bruised and scraped them on the rocks and God knows what else. The water took your shoes. The soles were so fucked. I think your small toe was broken. And all you did was fade in and out of consciousness for days while I cleaned and patched them up for you."

Oh, how Hannibal wishes he'd been permitted to witness Will Graham bandaging his battered feet. The image comes to him, glossy and vivid like an oil painting. What a saint Will must have looked. Knelt at the feet of his favorite sinner, streaming with tears and blood. And did he weep? Whilst Hannibal fought for life? Hannibal hopes that he wept.

A mirage of those precious moments appears before Hannibal now, for Will's look has grown doleful and distant. His thumb circles, caressing without thought, over Hannibal’s ankle bone.

"Will."

Will shakes off the apparent reverie. "That's the last one. You're still bleeding a bit. Maybe just soak it. It'll be fine."

He begins to rise. Hannibal cannot allow this. He flexes his foot up to Will's cheek and moves its side smoothly over stubble, over scar tissue and warm skin. Will's eyes fall closed with a sigh and he slumps on the stool, as if conquered. Or relieved. Tentative fingers wrap about Hannibal's ankle and Will leans into the caress, nuzzling.

"It's all right," Hannibal murmurs. They stay like this while seconds stretch. The room grows nearly silent about them. Two even breaths. Once in a while, a splash of water. The scent of lavender steam, of freshly shed blood. Above it all, the faintest note of something blossoming inside Will.

"I never—" Will says, very softly, fingers sliding down over the fine bones of the arch, "I want— I'm glad you're alive."

He cups Hannibal's foot from below, cradling the heel, and bends down to kiss the sole, just below the wound. Once, and then again, quick and fleeting, as when they are in bed together. As if he might be denied. "Aren't you ticklish?" he asks against Hannibal's skin. He sounds strained. He's holding his breath.

"I'm not," Hannibal says, "not at all."

Is that how these things ended with Will's female lovers? Naturally. A touch or a kiss too far, and they'd giggle and squirm away. Missing their chance to see deeper into Will, to know him and to cater to his complexities. Hannibal would never be so foolish.

When Hannibal traces the pad of his big toe over his cheekbone, Will's breath spills out of him, shaky and disbelieving. His kisses pick up pace and grow firmer, more insistent. His fingertips push between Hannibal's toes to lace them together. Will's other hand slips from Hannibal's ankle and disappears from sight, below the edge of the tub. The sound of zipper teeth drawing apart. Will's shoulder begins to shift slowly, in a subtle and telling rhythm.

In that moment it seems right for Hannibal to reach into the water and wrap himself in languid strokes, setting off small ripples that splash againsts shiny copper. A little encouragement, to spur Will on.

"What do you want, Will?"

Will’s eyes open. Bent awkwardly, clasping and nuzzling his flesh and bone prize, he stares past it at Hannibal, at his hand in the water. "Just— let me stay like this for a while. And watch you."

"Anything. As long as you wish.”

“Does it feel good?”

“The way you're touching me?” Hannibal makes a show of slicking himself up with soap, then resumes his strokes. His stiff cock juts obscenely just above the surface of the water. "Very good. Please don't stop."

Will's arm moves faster, a single choked noise in his throat. His mouth travels the outlines of Hannibal's bones, open and wet now, bolder with nibbling bites. Hannibal brings his other foot, warm and dripping, to drag a caress down Will's neck.

”Am I still bleeding?"

"Just a little bit. Yeah."

"Would you like to taste it?"

Will glances up with those wild and lovely eyes and nods quickly. He grips the heel again, brings the ball of Hannibal's foot to his lips, and then the live wet muscle of his tongue is twisting and lapping, hard and greedy, in pursuit of Hannibal's blood. Neither of them can help a groan.

It's a sight to behold and a sensation to savour, and Hannibal has to give himself a few rougher tugs of his fist before he can restrain himself. His mind has already painted the final frame of this scene and it is not this. He pulls his foot away from Will's clasp, enjoying the small involuntary noise of protest that the action elicits.

He brings the foot gracefully across one knee. He lathers it throughly, over the sole, between the toes, then repeats the process with the other.

"Will you stand up for me?"

Will's eyes, which have so far followed Hannibal's every move, now stray and dance nervously about the room. But still he stands, holding on awkwardly to the edge of the bathtub. His undone trousers droop down his thighs and his erection appears, rigid and flushed, through the front of his shirt. Hannibal can hardly wait. He extends his soap-slicked toes and drags them over the head of Will's cock.

"Jesus," Will gasps and lurches forward, gripping the tub for balance. "I don't think I— oh. Oh God."

Too late. Hannibal has claimed Will's cock and is sliding it between slippery soles, slow yet firm, toes pinching over the head and rubbing along the shaft. Will's head drops between his shoulders and he shakes, hips working into the tight clasp of Hannibal's feet. Little choked whimpers escape him. His cock drips and throbs. He cannot possibly last long. Hannibal, caught up in this act, so new and revelatory, has hardly taken notice of his own arousal, the ascending pleasure of his own hand beneath the water.

"Take them, Will," Hannibal murmurs, "take them and use them.”

The only reply is a further gasp. Will wraps both hands about Hannibal's feet and fucks in quick sharp jabs into their tightened grip. Hannibal twists his toes against the head, teases over the slit and that is enough. Will shudders and spasms and swears softly, seeping onto Hannibal’s skin, between his toes and into the water below.

When it’s done, he slumps onto his elbows against the bath. His lips fall against the arches of Hannibal’s feet, kissing away the semen spilled there.

It’s all too easy in this unguarded moment for Hannibal to reach up, catch Will by the folds of his shirt and topple him into the bath, remaining clothes and all. Water sloshes over the sides, a miniature tsunami raised up by Will’s body. Will raises no protest, pleasingly pliant in Hannibal’s arms, and merely manoeuvres himself into their enclosure. He gives a little grunt of contentment and buries his face in Hannibal’s shoulder.

Discussions of what has ensued can wait. A tender silence engulfs them and the water grows tepid. Hannibal gathers Will closer, kisses his damp hair, and gives some thought to the unexpected emergence of beauty from things that have been shattered.


	3. Teeth

The warmer months are coming to a fickle end, full of storms and sudden gusts. More than once in the last few weeks the two of them have watched from the porch as leaden thunderclouds tumbled and growled over the cliffs and the ocean. More than once, while the skies opened up above him, Hannibal has had to rescue from the line the linens he'd hung out to dry, much to Will's schadenfreude. Dryers have been the staple of Will's life thus far, and the sight of bedsheets and blankets billowing in the wind made him grouse about the partially obscured view from the house. That is, until Hannibal flagged the complaint as clear indication that Will loved and cherished the beauty of the view. Will hasn't protested since.

Will is full of such small delights.

The early evening is fine and clear but for a flock of white clouds sat just above the horizon, debating their advance towards the coast while the sun slides lazily down behind them. Hannibal steps outside to discover a surprise: Will has pulled down the cushions from the rattan sofa and armchairs, tossed them about the porch in a loose arrangement and draped them with some of the same air-dried blankets he'd once complained about. He's settled down amongst all this cross-legged and is gazing out over the gardens and the cliffs beyond. Beside him he's set a tray — on it, a pitcher of something iced and studded with sliced limes, two glasses, a small plate of fruit and what Hannibal recognises as cold cuts from yesterday's supper.

"A picnic on the porch?" Hannibal asks.

Will turns his head. He's framed by tendrils of late bloom honeysuckle that drip tangled from the roof of the porch. The wind is making mischief with his hair and his pale blue summer shirt. He smiles. On some porous surface of Hannibal's memory, this scene will be painted in soft sentimental watercolors.

"Last of the decent weather for a while," Will says. "Rain all day tomorrow. Might as well make the most of it." He pours out two glasses and hands one out while Hannibal settles down beside him.

"Dark and Stormy," Hannibal says after a sip. "Did you use our twenty year old Appleton Estate for this?"

Will frowns slightly and hides behind his glass. "Yeah. The recipe said dark rum and that's all we had. Sorry?"

"Don't be. You couldn't have found a more perfect accompaniment to an evening like this."

Will flushes faintly at the compliment and that is compensation enough for the fine spirit currently drowning in lime juice and ginger ale. Besides, how could Hannibal reproach Will for his efforts? It's not the first time he has summoned these tableaux for their mutual delight. They used to catch Hannibal off guard. Now he sees them for what they were: small expressions of dormant creativity through domestic theatre, something to make up for their — thus far — bloodless stay here. That they share an impulse towards spectacle delights Hannibal beyond measure. Time will come for grander theatrics, when circumstances are safer. Hannibal lives in hope.

Will must still be basking in the praise. He welcomes Hannibal's arm around his shoulders, even leans into the kiss Hannibal presses into his hair, and clinks his glass to Hannibal's.

Two drinks and a few nibbles later, Hannibal has him in his lap.

\---

Will's breath rises to a whine.

"God, fuck. Enough!"

Hannibal's teeth skid down sweat-slicked skin to the jut of Will's collarbone where he closes a wide-mouthed bite. "No. Stay. Be still. Breathe for me."

Will pants in Hannibal's ear and squirms in Hannibal's lap and pulls at Hannibal's grip. Hannibal only holds him tighter, keeping him full, impaled. "Stay," he murmurs again, kissing away a few cooling drops of come trickling down Will's chest. Will drops his forehead to Hannibal's. He tries to keep still and breathes as he's told.

The aftershocks of Will's climax pass like ripples beneath Hannibal's hands. Between their bodies, his cock lies half hard, sticky with lubricant and spilled semen. Every nerve ending inside his body must be crying out, overwrought from pleasure. Having spent himself deep inside Will moments before, Hannibal is in much the same state.

But Will has set this moment in motion, and Hannibal is loathe to let it go. Not when he's held so completely by Will's body, without an inch to spare. Not with the scent of sex and flowers around them, not with the sun setting so spectacularly behind them, now flanked by darkening clouds that turn their bodies into writhing shadows. Has Will summoned this sky too, to complete his scene?

Hannibal kisses his mouth and smooths damp tresses from his temple. "Better?"

Will lets out a soft grunt. "Yeah. And— damnit. You'll have to go soft eventually."

Hannibal works his hips up in reply. Not further in, for there is no further in, but enough to push what's left of his erection against Will's prostate. At the same time, for good measure, he reaches down and swipes his thumb over the head of Will's spent cock. Will shudders and thumps a fist weakly against his chest. "You asshole," he whimpers.

"You may protest, Will, but your body is doing a fine job of keeping me in you," Hannibal says, scraping his teeth over the faint stubble of Will's jaw. "If anything, you're holding me tighter. Do you know how you feel around me? Like silk and fire. I can feel my come coating you from the inside. I wonder how far it reached?"

"Jesus Christ, Hannibal."

With a single sweep, Hannibal topples them back onto the mess of cushions and blankets. Will's legs wrap around him at once. Their bodies never separate — Will has given up the fight.

"So is this my life now? Just stuffed full of your cock forever?" he says, but his eyes have gone soft, almost smiling, and achingly beautiful in the crepuscular light. Hannibal takes him in: the naked, elemental reality of him beneath Hannibal's body, smooth skin anointed with scars, come and sweat.

He leans in for another kiss and finds it borders on reverence. "Make it my life as well, then," he says. "And have your revenge while you're at it."

"What? How—"

Hannibal finds the lube tangled in the blankets and presses it in Will's hand. "Reach back."

Will swallows. "Are you sure?"

Hannibal nods. A second of hesitation, then Will's legs drop down from about Hannibal's waist and he's reaching back, slicked fingers caressing between Hannibal's cheeks. He probes and presses the tight muscle, little circles to ease his way in. A finger sinks in smoothly, to the knuckle.

Hannibal sighs at the penetration. His cock inside Will's body gives a twitch and his hips jerk, unsure which way to pivot.

Will grins up at him and adds another finger. He lets both of them thrust, to curve and wiggle and tease Hannibal from the inside.

"So now we're fucking each other? Is that the idea?"

"As close as we can manage it, yes," Hannibal says.

Will arches up and nips at Hannibal's lower lip. "Seems appropriate."

They stay like this, rocking slowly together, entwined. Their bodies cool by degrees. Their eyes stay locked. The porch light clicks on, stirred by their motion and by the fading day.

Will's free hand drifts up to Hannibal's mouth. His thumb presses against Hannibal's lower lip. Then inside, to trace over Hannibal's teeth, skin over smooth enamel. He presses the tip hard against one of Hannibal's canines, slides across, and presses into the other.

"Your victims," Will says softly. "Did you ever—" he swallows hard. "Other than the Dragon?"

 _Tear into them_ , he must mean. Hannibal tightens his jaws around Will's thumb and shakes his head slowly. _No_.

Will turns his head away. He keeps his thumb in Hannibal's mouth, tangling with Hannibal's tongue. "No. Not if Cordell is anything to go by. Not nice. Too crude. Too base."

Hannibal pulls back and presses a kiss to Will's palm. He reaches down to turn Will's face back to himself.

"Is that how you want me to eat you, Will?"

Will looks up at him. Hannibal wants to kiss the look in his eyes, the helpless longing there. "I don't know. I want— more of this. Somehow."

Nature and God deny Will his wish: to slide into each other and become one. Hannibal wraps his arms about Will and holds him crushingly close. "We'll find a way," he whispers into Will's ear.

Where God's imagination fails, Hannibal always steps in.

\---

In time, they slip apart. The evening chill settles over them and Will draws a blanket to shield them both. They doze.

Hannibal wakes to the sound of downpour and a tug on his wrist.

"Come on," Will says, sleepy and soft over the sound of crashing raindrops. "Let's get in it. Let's get clean."

"You first," Hannibal says. Will frowns at him. "I'll join you, I promise," he adds.

Will goes. He steps off the porch into the dark and the deluge, and turns his face up to the heavens. Hannibal watches him, transfixed: his beautiful naked half-god, his conjuror of rains.


	4. Leather (Part 1)

"Well, then get your own damn car," Will says after Hannibal complains about their sturdy used Volvo for the millionth time. He's had it with the incessant griping about inadequate A/C, poor choice of color and a lack of something Hannibal calls "road flair".

"Perhaps I will," Hannibal says and looks out the window with a mysterious half-smirk.

Will frets.

Weeks go by.

\----  
  
Will wakes to an empty bed. That in itself is not unusual until he rolls over and sees the time: five thirty in the morning. The light is barely breaking. Will's heart rate spikes.

He stays under the covers for a few minutes to calm himself with logic and reason. He listens to the house. Bathroom? No. No running taps, and no light under the ensuite door. Kitchen? Maybe. It's not unlike Hannibal to steal out of bed at the break of dawn to start on some time-consuming recipe. But no sound is coming from downstairs either. Could the dogs have wanted out? The thought of Hannibal getting up to attend to anything dog-related is risible.

Will gets up and calls out — nothing. Hannibal's phone is gone — no response from that either. When he checks the garage his heart thumps again: the car's not been taken.

Will paces the kitchen and makes himself breathe. They have protocols for this kind of thing, in case one of them is forced to vanish. None of them have been followed.

An engine sounds outside, distant but approaching. That is enough. Will gets the gun.

Closer and closer, winding up the steep twisting road to their gate. It’s not a car: something smaller, but still powerful. Will stalks up to the front door, gun in hand, and peers carefully out of the side light.

The automatic gate parts to let in a sleek black bike mounted with a rider in a matching black helmet. Will could recognize the lines of that body, the set of those shoulders, from a mile away. He heaves a sigh of relief. Then he swings the door open and stomps outside.

"How— wh— what the fuck?" he spits out as soon as the engine falls silent.

Hannibal peels out of his helmet, tames his hair with a sweep of his fingers and dismounts. "Good morning, Will."

Will doesn't know where to begin: anger, relief, incredulity — or the sudden onset of weird, vague excitement. "Where the hell did you get that? At six in the morning?"

"The only man on the island with a Ducati for sale leaves early every day for the mainland. I met him at the bottom of our road to finalise the purchase. His trailer would have been impossible to manoeuvre up to our gate. So here I am."

Will decides to move straight into anger. "Here you are. You couldn't have left a fucking note?"

"I would apologise, were this not the ensemble you chose to greet me in," Hannibal says, stepping closer and looking Will up and down. "I'm afraid I cannot muster any regret."

Will stares down at himself. His outfit consists of black boxer briefs and a loaded weapon. "I thought something had happened," he says quietly.

"Something has happened. I bought a motorcycle." Hannibal stops to greet him with a soft kiss. "Let me appease you with breakfast," he says, and steps onto the porch.

"You realise this isn't the car we talked about? This thing is ridiculous," Will calls after him, but Hannibal has already disappeared inside.

"Asshole," Will mutters. He stares at the bike for a moment then walks over slowly and reaches out to touch the seat. The leather is still warm, from the engine and from the heat of Hannibal's body.

\----

While Hannibal makes breakfast, Will sneaks outside again and circles the bike, which stands gleaming on the gravel in front of the house. He kicks the Pirelli tires, squats down to admire the V-twin engine. He Googles the spec on his phone and whistles. He sees the price on the website and groans.

The model's called "Monster" — of course it is. If Hannibal were a machine he'd be this machine: elegant, precise and highly likely to inflict irreparable damage to various internal organs. Will casts a quick furtive look back at the house, making sure he's alone, then swings one leg over the seat. He grabs and squeezes the handlebars. He can almost feel the rumble of the engine rattling his bones. As a kid and later as a young man he fantasised about owning something so beautiful.

He doesn't own this bike. But he owns something comparable.

\----  
  
Eggs Sardou, which Will has been craving since his New Orleans days, are his consolation for Hannibal's earlier absconding.

"Seriously though, that thing's not practical," Will says after the first mouthful of poached egg and artichoke and crumbled bacon. "What happened to getting a car?"

"Certainly it's practical. It is fast, and perfect for negotiating the narrow roads of local towns."

"You can't haul anything with it. Can you even fit it with panniers?"

"One could, but it would ruin the overall look."

Will rolls his eyes and loads up another forkful of his absurdly delicious breakfast.

"Of course I would have preferred a Triumph Thruxton, like the one I had in Italy," Hannibal says after a pause.

Will looks up from his plate. "When you were young?"

"No. When I was in Florence. When you came to find me."

Will's chest feels suddenly tight and aching, and it's with something like regret. He wishes he had that memory to recall now: a bike saddled with a familiar figure tearing its way through the dark labyrinth of Florentine streets. Will close behind, hot in pursuit. The thrill of discovery and capture, of possessing his monster in motorcycle leathers and never letting him go again. It had gone so very wrong instead.

"Unfortunately you never had the opportunity to pursue me whilst I still rode it," Hannibal says.

Their eyes lock.

"Until now," Will says.

Hannibal spreads a slow smile and nods. "Until now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [Eggs Sardou](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eggs_Sardou)  
> \- [2015 Ducati Monster 1200 S](http://www.ducatistore.co.uk/i/monster-821-dark/monster-821-dark-3.png)


	5. Leather (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've come for smut: no smut till third part of this. Sorry. Still a good read - I think.

Will doesn't need details. He knows that whatever it is they'd agreed to at breakfast will take shape soon enough. He spends the day doing spurious chores outside, keeping an eye on the motorcycle and waiting for something to happen. Around three in the afternoon, the front door finally opens.

Hannibal steps off the porch and moves smoothly for his new toy, casting Will a mock-coy glance along the way. The leathers move with him. The matching jacket, gloves and trousers cling to him like new skin, begging to be marred and battered. Body warmth must have seeped into every inch of it all already, that same beguiling warmth Will's hand sought from the seat of the motorcycle. Except for the boots, none of it is quite black: the late afternoon sun betrays the leather's color as a midnight shade of red. Will remembers the Dragon's blood pooling in the moonlight and his own blood picks up pace in his veins.

Hannibal looks like a prize. Like something to be caught. Which is exactly the point. Will stalks him to the bike, closer and closer, until they're face to face and inches apart.

They watch each other in silence. Will wants so much to put his hands somewhere; to tug at stiff new zippers, snap open silver buttons and feel the human skin beneath the tanned animal one. But then he'd pass up the chase.

Hannibal leans back against the bike seat and lets himself be examined. His tongue runs over his lips.

"How much of a head start are you willing to grant me?"

Will takes a moment to consider. "Three minutes. Head for the town."

Hannibal accepts with a short nod. Then there's no time to waste. He swings a leg over the bike, puts on his helmet and lets the engine roar to life. A few seconds later he's past the gate, the lazy plume of dust stirred up by the tyres dancing behind him in the thick late summer sunshine.

\---

It's easy enough at first. The coastal road into town is nearly deserted and Will keeps the car at a good distance, only passing larger trucks once or twice to make sure the black Ducati stays in sight. Neither one of them is speeding — speed isn't the point, and to get caught on a traffic offence would be the height of idiocy.

Once they both hit the valley, the buildings and traffic both grow denser. Cars, bicycles and mopeds all pour out of the side streets and conspire to block Will's view until all he can glimpse, about five cars ahead in the adjacent lane, is the black helmet glinting in the dappled sunshine along the main avenue.

It's the first time Will thinks he may lose the trail. An irrational wave of anger and fear crashes into him and he feels his palms start to sweat on the steering wheel. This is just a game. Hannibal isn't really going anywhere. Still, Will nearly runs a red light while trying to get closer, only to find, when he does get a better look, that the owner of the black helmet isn't riding a shiny new Ducati but a beat-up old Harley.

Will swears loudly, repeatedly — only to catch a flash of a red-black jacket and expensive bike disappearing into a side street. He ignores the honking as he swerves across a lane of traffic and turns sharply, in pursuit.

Off the main road, the streets become absurdly narrow. Will can barely do thirty. He struggles not to clip rear view mirrors off the parked cars and vans piled up on both sides of him, as he chases after fleeting glimpses of the black bike disappearing behind the next turn, and the next. He swats off the annoying thought that Hannibal was right: in this cramped labyrinth at least, the bike has the advantage.

But it can't go on forever. The town is small, and the only way through the neighborhoods is back out of town. When the buildings thin out again, Will gets a nice full view of the bike tearing down onto a two lane country road. He grins and puts his foot on the gas.

The landscape flattens out around them: fruit farms and corn fields as far as the eye can see. Where can this go now? Is Hannibal going to run until he drains both their tanks? Will is yanked from his sordid daydreams of post-capture possibilities by a massive goods truck overtaking him from nowhere, robbing him of his view. When the truck reaches a twist in the road, and he can see ahead again, Hannibal is nowhere in sight.

"Where the fuck?" Will hisses under his breath and then he sees it: the sprawling mango grove to his right and the cloud of dust barely settling on the dirt road that leads up to it.

He hits the breaks.

\-----

At the end of the dirt road stands a run-down farmer's shack. Will stops the car nearby and gets out, closing the door as quietly as he can. He listens for the rumble of an engine: nothing. And not a soul as far as the eye can see — the picking work must be done for the day. The only sound is the wind moving through the endless rows of mango trees. Will circles around to the back of the shack.

He finds the bike standing in the shade of a tree on a dusty patch of earth. The helmet hangs from a handlebar. Will slips his hand inside it — still warm.

A sudden gust kicks at the door to the shack and slams it open then shut again. Will starts, then moves towards it.

He steps inside and peers about the murky interior. What would Hannibal do now, knowing his victim was so close but out of sight? He wishes he had Hannibal's olfactory gifts. He'd smell the new leather now, the familiar cedar scent of Hannibal's shampoo.

A floorboard creaks once, and a forearm is swung snugly across Will's throat. Will's nostrils flood. Leather. Warm new leather. For a split second Will wants to let the hold tighten, to lose himself in the heat suddenly pressing all along his back. Then instincts kick in and he grabs at the arm, steps one foot back and swings his entire body to the right. The arm gives, Will ducks away, dances back a step and straightens up to face Hannibal's silhouette, outlined by the light flooding in through the door to the shack.  
  
And then Will shoves.

He shoves and shoves until he has Hannibal outside and backed up against the Ducati. Hannibal doesn't protest, merely scans Will's face with bright, amused eyes. Will grabs at the ribbed leather padding Hannibal's shoulders.

"You could have tried harder to fight me," he says through his teeth.

Hannibal catches the bike seat for balance. His hair has come unmoored inside the helmet, dye-kissed strands of blond-grey clinging to his forehead. Will smooths it back.

"The point was to be caught, not to do battle with you," Hannibal says quietly. "You've caught me well enough."

Will pins him harder against the bike. He leans in, breathes in, then licks slowly at the seam of Hannibal's mouth. He swirls his tongue into Hannibal's stubble, lapping up the salt of his sweat. He scrapes his teeth against the short rough hair. "What do I get for catching you?"

"Anything. Dole out whatever justice you see fit, Will."

"Not justice. I've had it with justice," Will says and brings their hips flush together. He presses the jacket's zipper pull between two fingers and tugs. "But I do wanna know what you're wearing under this."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hanni's jacket](https://www.belstaff.co.uk/men/leather-jackets/biker/the-outlaw-2.0-vintage-blue/71020619L81N0618-VintageBlue.html#start=1), but in red-black.


	6. Leather (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit rushed. Still, nearly 2000 words of leather Hanni smut, so... no complaints please.

Honesty is easier for Will these days. He can admit to himself that much of his rapidly accelerating arousal is down to this: he's got Hannibal right where he's put him, caught and kept between his body and the bike. He shuffles closer, crowding into the fine sliver of a space between them, and locks their hips together, his jeans to Hannibal's leather. Under Will's fingers, the jacket's zipper parts with a low growl.

There's a black T-shirt underneath, damp from the ride, plastered to skin. Will twists the fabric in his fists and tugs.

"This isn't you," he says.

Hannibal's eyes dance over his face, still soft and amused. The heat of his body vents out from under Will's handfuls, fanned out by a dusty breeze. "Did you expect a waistcoat?"

"Take it off. Then put the jacket back on."

Hannibal shrugs off the jacket and, with Will's help, peels out of the T-shirt in the small space allowed him. Jacket back on, he puts his hands loosely on Will's waist and waits, watching with eyes half-lidded and lips faintly slack.

"Better," Will says and licks once at his mouth.

Beneath the slide of his hands, the leather creaks and spills out its animal redolence. Will parts the jacket over Hannibal's chest, wide enough to scrape the zipper teeth against Hannibal's nipples. Grinning at the hiss he elicits, he soothes them with his thumbs — only to prick them with fingernails, twisting and tugging until Hannibal's breath has quickened and stuttered. He dips down to lap at one nipple, then the other, dragging the flat of his tongue against hot tacky skin, chest hair tickling his nose and chin.

Hannibal's hands thread into Will's hair. "As much as I appreciate the attention," he murmurs, "we may be discovered out here."

Will says nothing. He puts his hands on the jacket's zipped pockets, feeling for their contents; then moves to the trousers, looking.

"Is this a pat-down?" Hannibal says, nipping at Will's earlobe, "Am I a common thug?"

"Common thugs are harder to catch than you were today. And anyway—" Will kisses him again, one hard press of the lips— "you and I are way past playing cops and bad guys."

"I should hope so.” Hannibal nuzzles Will's cheek, then trails his lips over scars and stubble. "I work hard to elevate us above pedestrian fantasies."

"Is that why you brought this?" Will yanks a small capped bottle from the pocket of Hannibal's trousers. "Still worried about getting caught fucking al fresco, doctor?"

Hannibal gives him a coy look. His hair has come unmoored again, eyes bright and almost golden in the early evening sun. He slides his arms about Will's waist, bringing their bodies inseparably together, still rubbing and grinding, both of them getting harder.

Will looks down between them. "I promise to make it quick," he whispers, and reaches for his fly.  
  
He's loathe to give Hannibal even an inch of space and so he wrangles with belt, button and zipper until Hannibal comes to his aid. Cock freed, he draws back enough to grip the shaft and rub the slick head against the outline of Hannibal's erection. His forehead drops against Hannibal's. He pants softly into Hannibal's mouth. The leather feels so good on his dick, so soft and supple and warm. When he sees the mess he leaves behind, he catches Hannibal's eyes.  
  
"Do you care?"

Hannibal's gaze flicks between Will's face and the sticky trails of precome now marring the straining leather bulge. He jerks his head: _no_.

"Then I might as well make it worse," Will says, and drops to his knees.

A sharp, cool breeze lashes through the mango trees and whips itself between them. Will leans in and opens his mouth on the mess he's made. He tastes leather and briny salt. He smells petrol and sun-warmed earth. Between Hannibal's thighs, the engine of the Ducati glints and glimmers. Will's dick feels heavier between his legs, bobbing and leaking in the open air. He draws his tongue against Hannibal's cock until he can almost trace the ridge of the head through that smooth second skin. He closes his eyes and pictures himself flaying it from Hannibal's body with his teeth. He lets himself groan.  
  
Hannibal's boots skid in the dirt. His hips rock slowly against Will's mouth.

"Will, please—"

"I know. I said quick."

Will snaps open the button of Hannibal's trousers, tugs with fingers and teeth until he's got the folds of the zipper parted. Underneath he finds boxers. Black, to match the T-shirt. A bit too small, too tight under the swell of Hannibal's stomach. Familiar.

Will breathes a laugh and looks up.

"These are mine." He tugs at the waistband and snaps it back sharply. "You're wearing my boxers."

Hannibal licks at his lips, leaving them parted and slick. "I didn't have anything suitable to go with the leathers."

Will lands a light slap against the swell of Hannibal's cock. "Liar. Why did you really wear them?"

Hannibal flinches, almost imperceptibly. His fist tightens again in Will's hair and he swallows. "I imagined something similar to this— scene you've created here. And I wondered what you might do when you saw me like this."

Will flicks his tongue once against the black cotton, eyes on Hannibal's face. "And what will I do?"

Hannibal's mouth wavers for a moment. His chest is rising and falling with quickened breath. Will can see the breeze moving through his chest hair. His fingers seek back for grip on the bike. "I don't know, Will. You always surprise me."

Will turns his head slowly, keeping his eyes open and upturned. He grips both hands tightly over Hannibal's ass. Lips pursed and wet, he draws them down the confined length of Hannibal's cock until he reaches the head. There, he lets his tongue roll and twirl, filthy and wet, over and over without reprieve until the cloth is hot and spit-sodden. Under the squeeze of his hands, he feels Hannibal's thighs begin to shake.

"Seeing as you've got your cock in my boxers," he murmurs between licks, "I think I'm gonna ruin them for you." He locks his lips over the soaked cotton and sucks.

Above him, Hannibal lets out a groan. His head falls back. His hips buck once, then start to move in clipped, rhythmic jerks. Will stops him for long enough to tug the trousers down around his thighs, then leans back to behold his handiwork. The thin black cloth is drenched, almost translucent, a creased flimsy veil clinging to every ridge and vein, filled and heavy with Hannibal's hard cock. Obscene — but not obscene enough. Will grips his own dick and goes back to work.

His free hand skidding on leather, lips sealed tight over his mouthful, he suckles until Hannibal's taste seeps through the fabric and mingles with his spit. The friction burns his lips and tongue, the force and pace he's set himself verging on self-violence, but he can't bring himself to stop. They're both moaning now — rough, fractured sounds that fill the silence of the sprawling fields.

Will pulls back with a gasp. "Can you come like this?"

Hannibal's fingers fall against Will's mouth to stroke at friction-burned flesh. His eyes are cast in shade and Will wishes he could see well enough to glimpse the heat and the hunger they hold.

"I'd like to. For you. Anything for you, Will."

Will dips down to nip once at his inner thigh. "Maybe I can help."

He grabs the lube he'd stashed in his jeans. He soaks his hand with a small deluge of the viscous fluid and threads it into the leg of Hannibal's boxers, over the swell of soft flesh inside. He dives into the heat and sweat between Hannibal's cheeks and then — no teasing, no ceremony — drives in with two slicked fingers. It's too rough, too quick. He hears the helpless noise Hannibal makes, feels him struggle for balance and some semblance of composure. Will fists his own cock harder, pumps it with greedy strokes, and leans in again for his prized mouthful. He moans between the wet sounds made by his fingers and tongue. He wants to make this last. But some semblance of caution remains — he's promised to be quick. He curves his fingers downward, into a circling caress.

It's that rarest of things: a long cry from Hannibal's throat, a sound of self-betrayal. His cock jerks under Will's tongue, come seeping through the cotton, into Will's mouth, out the side of the boxers and down his inner thigh, dripping onto leather. The sight, smell and sound nearly send Will unravelling. He pulls back to spare himself and staggers to his feet, hand still moving on his cock, the other wiping at his mouth.

He sees what he's accomplished: Hannibal slumped against the motorcycle, panting and flushed, leathers undone, come-stained and spit-soaked and entirely wrecked. 

"God, you're a mess," Will gasps. "Turn around. Please. Now."

Hannibal mouths a yes. He spins, bends over the bike, hands digging into the seat, head thrust back to catch Will's eyes.

Will staggers forward, nearly falls against Hannibal's body. He shoves the boxers down and rams his cock between Hannibal's thighs, below the swell of his ass, between leather and flesh. He cannot wait — he starts to thrust sharply into that wet heat, with short, rough cries that Hannibal answers with his own. His orgasm tears itself from him, a pulse after pulse of blinding pleasure spent against Hannibal's skins.

He slumps, arms flung about Hannibal's frame. Slowly, by degrees, Hannibal turns and locks him into a tight embrace.

The breeze rushes in from the grove again, carrying the scent of spoiled fallen fruit, dancing about them in small tornadoes of dust. Will's knees may betray him at any moment. He clings on, head drooping onto Hannibal's chest. A memory runs through him of a more perilous time that saw them holding each other like this.

"Sorry," he mutters, muffled against the soft warm leather padding. "There's, uh— there's tissues in the car."

"Thank you. I have some with me as well."

"How do we— what do you want to do about getting back?" The logistics of travel seem suddenly and dizzyingly overwhelming.

Hannibal kisses his hair. "You lead the way," he says simply. "And I'll follow you home."


	7. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut here. Just a short bit of fluff featuring Maurice Ravel. This short chapter ends the series.

Midnight has long fled, the windows are wide open, but still the house swelters.

Hannibal sits at the piano and stares at the pages set out before him. A drop of sweat rolls down his spine.

The air conditioning gave up the ghost on Sunday. The new unit won't arrive from the mainland until two days hence. Sleep has become elusive in the heat and so Hannibal, never having needed much of it in the first place, commits his nights to music.

With these suites, he may have overreached. He scans the pages, turns them, then turns them back again. He finds that he's placed himself on what, for him, is that rarest of precipices: the coarse, far-flung edge his own inadequacy.

Black notes race and leap across the paper like skittish children seen from high up above. How can he scoop them up in his hands and scatter them over hard ivory? Bach, Purcell, Handel — all are solid ground. This music is open waters.

He marches his fingers soundlessly on the keys, bare feet poised over the pedals. He tries to picture how he'll ever manage to color all those arpeggios, all those glissandi. They slip from him before he even begins.

He thinks of the first time he met Will.

From upstairs, he hears the patter of bare feet. The dogs stir from their sleep on the tiles by the patio and trot towards their master.

"Too hot up there," Will mutters drowsily, appearing at the bottom of the stairs in his boxers. "This is Louisiana style heat."

"Only two more nights," Hannibal says and pats the piano bench. Will wanders over to join him, trailed by his faithful hounds.

"What are you doing? I didn't hear you playing."

"I was reading."

Will eyes him, then eyes the music. He picks at some invisible speck of dust on Hannibal's linen shirt.

"Have I heard it yet?"

"You haven't. You may never. Not from my hands in any case."

"Not like you to give up on a challenge."

"They're difficult pieces to master. Full of unpredictable currents, like the ocean."

"Again, not something that would normally put you off."

Hannibal shifts on the bench and reaches to arrange the pages on the shelf. "I should switch to Satie. Same lyrical quality, but less temperamental. Did you know he wrote some pieces especially for dogs? I could play them for your animals."

Will nudges him with his shoulder. "Hannibal."

"Hm?"

"It’s the middle of the night. Are you gonna tell me why you've been sitting down here for hours staring at this music or not?"

Hannibal is silent for a moment. "It reminds me of your mind. It is its very image."

"You've played my mind. You're not playing this music. Are you afraid you'll break it, the way you broke my head?"

Hannibal's silence sinks deeper and lingers. His left hand falls over the keys and drifts again. His right covers Will's thigh.

"You can't get at the heart of something just by staring at it," Will says. 

Hannibal smiles faintly at those words. Is this what forgiveness sounds like?

"Imagine if I'd only ever looked at you."

"Let me hear it."

"Will—"

"Come on. I need something to send me off to sleep. Is it good for that?"

"It's delicate and turbulent. Chaotic and sublime."

"I’ll take it," Will says, and leaves him with a kiss. He moves to the sofa near the patio, curling up on it with both hands folded beneath his cheek. The dogs flop down at his side.

"At least there's a breeze near here," he murmurs.

"Yes," Hannibal says. "You can smell the ocean."  
  
Will yawns. “I was thinking we should buy a boat. Something to fix up now and take out next Spring.”

Hannibal watches him for a moment: the shape and presence of him in Hannibal’s life.

“I’d like that,” he says.

Will closes his eyes.

Hannibal turns the page to the most beautiful of the suites, the one that starts out like rays of light scattered on the surface of the ocean. He begins. The music spills from him, eternal, like water, like love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music is [Ravel's "Une barque sur l'ocean"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTYUyDjVCRU), one of the Miroirs suites.


End file.
